


In the Cold Light of Morning

by spectacularkingeliot



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Drug Abuse, M/M, Multi, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 14:05:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17726636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectacularkingeliot/pseuds/spectacularkingeliot
Summary: Written for The Magicians Prompt Exchange. After a morning of anger and avoidance, Eliot calls Quentin out about his misplaced blame about their night with Margo post-emotion bottles.





	In the Cold Light of Morning

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt, by coldfiredragon : Before they go to Fillory. Quentin and Eliot are avoiding each other, until a passing moment that they aren't, and Eliot says something to the effect of not even remembering how he got to the bedroom, and you kissed me first Quentin. He's not angry, or drunk or high, just resigned, and then walks away before Quentin can respond.

Pulling on his coat, Eliot patted his pockets to make sure he had the important things. His flask was a familiar weight on one side, and he pulled his stash of pills from the other, eyeing the mixed bag thoughtfully. The emotion bottle that he was about to head downstairs to use would negate the point of taking anything, but who knew how long it would take everyone to get their shit together.

What a fucking mess.

Swallowing one of the pills dry without taking much note of what it was – anything was better than this – he tucked the rest away and left his bedroom, pausing outside to set a ward on the door. He didn’t know how long this little adventure to Fillory would take, and he didn’t want anyone rifling through his stuff while he was gone.

Or –

Or he’d die. And he was _not_ going to make it easy for whoever tried to claim his room.

Halfway down the corridor, a door opened beside him and before he could catch sight of who it was they barraged straight into him, forcing him back a few steps before they steadied each other with hands on arms. “Shit, I didn’t, I –“

Eliot stiffened at the sound of Quentin’s automatic mumble, and then bit back a sigh when he pulled back suddenly as he obviously realised who he’d walked into. Quentin’s arms wrapped tightly around himself as his eyes dropped to the ground. Because that’s what he’d done all morning – either thrown his anger and his hurt at him and Margo, or actively avoided them. “Oh, should I apologise for you walking into me, now, too?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Quentin’s shoulders stiffened. “That’s not –“ he said without looking up, but then he stopped, his jaw clenching.

Eliot shook his head at him, too tired to deal with this, too hungover, both physically and emotionally. He wished that whatever he’d taken would kick in soon. He’d spent the last few weeks failing to push down the anger, the pain, the self-hatred, to push it down so far that he couldn’t feel it, trying to cover it up with medicated elation or at least bury it in nothingness, but not – even without the drugs working their magic yet – all he felt is resignation.

Of course this had all fucked up. One of the few good things left to him. But what the fuck did it matter anyway? He and Margo were falling apart, and his friendship with Quentin was still so new and apparently tenuous that it obviously couldn’t survive a night that he couldn’t even remember outside of flashes. Here one moment, gone the next.

There was one thing he was sure of, though, and there was no fucking way that he was going to wear the whole blame for this. He’d told Margo earlier that Quentin had a right to be mad, but he was over him acting like he was innocent in all of this.

“We were all fucked up on the same stuff.” His words come out tired, and he didn’t care enough to force any more feeling into them. He was done with feeling. He didn’t want to argue – he wasn’t angry, he was just… done. With all of it.  Quentin could listen or not, whatever. He still didn’t look up at him, but his fingers tightened on his own arms until his knuckles went white. “I don’t even remember how we got to my room, but I do remember that you and Margo had already started by the time I woke up.” Quentin finally looked up at him, frowning deeply, and when he opened his mouth to speak Eliot talked right over him. “And I _know_ you pulled me in – you kissed me first. So leave me out of whatever victim bullshit you’ve worked yourself into.”

Without giving Quentin a chance to answer, he stepped around him and walked quickly down the corridor to the staircase. He just wanted to get to Fillory, so he could not die, or die, whichever.

As long as life wasn’t _this_ anymore.


End file.
